


ants on a log

by flaneuse



Series: grad school au [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Recreational Drug Use, iron bull/dorian is casual, not a romantic relationship, slight angst, this verse has eventual cullen/dorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaneuse/pseuds/flaneuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian has fucked up coping mechanisms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ants on a log

Dorian stares at the letter in his hand. Who even sends letters these days anyway? His family, of course. Stuffy, old-fashioned, traditional to a fault. His father would never call, unwilling to give Dorian the childish satisfaction he gets from screening his calls. A text is entirely out of the question. But an email is reasonable, right? Impersonal, easily done, easily ignored. But no, his father must send him a handwritten letter on Pavus family stationary, as if Dorian doesn’t live in a loft. How absurd is it to get this kind of letter when he lives in a _loft_? 

“What’s that?” Bull grunts, tearing him from his reverie. 

Dorian tosses the letter aside with an elegant gesture. “It’s from my father. One of my cousins is getting married to a politician—I’ve been invited, apparently, but dearest daddy doesn’t want me to come if I’m going to ‘make a scene.’ He said he’d be happy to arrange a date for me, with some lovely conservative girl who honestly is probably a lesbian.”

“Sucks,” Bull says, and Dorian snorts, unable to help himself.

“Your eloquence, dear Bull, never fails to astound me. One’s heart simply constricts at the way you manage to weave words.”

Bull just stares at him. “If you’re looking for sympathy you’re asking the wrong person.”

“So what do you suggest?” Dorian asks, because Bull is right. If he wanted sympathy, he would ask Cullen, with his straightforward honesty and earnestness. But Dorian doesn’t want Cullen to see this side of him, doesn’t want Cullen involved in his family politics, doesn’t want Cullen to see what a petty person he can be. 

Bull shrugs. “Weed?” 

Dorian smiles. “God, yes.”

Bull disappears into his room for a moment, coming back with a slim wooden box. He sits down on the couch next to Dorian, who scoots over to make room for Bull’s massive frame. Dorian thinks it’s absurd that Bull can devote as much time to politics as he can to bodybuilding. Dorian watches as Bull slides open the box, taking out rolling papers, a grinder, and a baggie of pot. Bull starts breaking up the buds and putting them in the grinder. It’s a peaceful process to watch, and Bull’s thick fingers release the pungent sweetness of the pot. Dorian inhales deeply.

“Hurry it up, dear friend,” Dorian says, and Bull nudges him with one, hulking shoulder. 

“Roll it yourself, then. You’re better at it anyway.”

Dorian smiles. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He scoots over and takes the grinder, dumping the weed out into his palm. He sprinkles it carefully, putting more of it at one end than the other, so that when he rolls it up, it’s more like a cone than a cylinder. He nearly forgets to add a filter, before glancing around quickly and seeing his father’s letter still open on the table. Well, it’s not his first choice, but the paper is thick enough. He folds it over and re-rolls the joint. He then twists the end closed with a flourish, tongue peeking out to lick the joint shut, and he presents it to Bull.

Bull’s lung capacity is unbelievable. He takes a deep hit, sucking the smoke in and then inhaling it even deeper, in a way that Dorian envies. Dorian takes the joint when Bull passes it over and takes his own hit, relishing the way the sweet smoke fills his mouth and throat, making it sticky. Dorian is nothing if not superfluous in all his actions, so when he exhales, he blows perfectly round smoke rings, and Bull waves them away with a roll of his eyes.

Between the two of them they finish off the joint in no time, and soon Dorian is leaning back against the couch, feeling heady and slow, body tingling as he stretches and twitches it minutely. There’s something so wonderfully wasteful about weed. It’s pure sensation, mind-numbing and mind-altering at the same time. He squirms a little in place, leaning against the heat the Bull radiates from his body. 

The two of them have an agreement of sorts. They rather fancy each other, but not in a way that could ever lead to a long-term relationship, and lucky for them both, neither of them are interested in that. So they fuck, on occasion. When they go out and neither of them picks up anyone, but they still have pent-up sexual energy that they need to get out. Maybe when Bull comes from the the gym or he’s stressed, and he just can’t wind down, Dorian will blow him. And right now, when Dorian needs to be distracted from the crap his family puts him through, he could use a good fuck.

Dorian feels the touch of lips at his neck, but that’s not what he wants right now. He cups Bull’s crotch, pressing hard, and Bull groans deep in his ear. His lips turn to teeth, and yes, that’s what Dorian needs. He continues to massage Bull’s dick through his pants, but Bull takes control, pulling Dorian tight against him, one massive hand gripping Dorian’s jaw almost painfully, holding him in place while Bull continues to bite at his neck. 

Bull’s ministrations don’t last long. Soon Dorian feels himself being manhandled forward so he’s on the floor, braced against the table. Bull pushes his shirt up and tugs his pants down, then his boxer briefs. Dorian’s head is resting on his forearms and he muffles his moan as Bull breaches him with one finger. Thank god their inability to keep the loft clean means there’s a 99% chance that no matter where in the apartment they are, there’s a bottle of lube somewhere nearby. This one was in the drawer of the coffee table, and Dorian’s glad because it means he doesn’t have to wait any longer.

Bull can be gentle in bed. He was once, when he knew Dorian really needed it. This time he doesn’t. So Bull shoves in a second finger, stretching Dorian mercilessly, and Dorian shamelessly arches his back, fucking himself on Bull’s fingers.

“Come on, Bull,” Dorian says, panting. “Just—“ He’s cut off as Bull chuckles, twisting his fingers inside Dorian and prompting a sharp cry. He withdraws and comes back with three, just to ensure Dorian can take it. He doesn’t waste much more time with preparation, however, and in a moment, Bull’s fingers are replaced with his cock.

God, even though Dorian isn’t interested in a monogamous relationship with Bull, he will certainly miss that cock when its gone. Bull thrusts in sharply, and Dorian throws his head back in ecstasy. Bull reaches down and fists a hand in Dorian’s hair, pulling as sharply as he’s fucking him. It’s so good—fast and rough and absolutely no affection. Bull knows how his body works by now, and Dorian relishes it. He pushes back against Bull, and Bull just fucks him harder. 

Bull’s grunts and the slapping sound of skin on skin fills the room around them and Dorian loses himself in it. Bull fills him up thick and deep and Dorian whimpers at the sensation.

“Touch yourself,” Bull commands. “Make yourself come, and then I’ll fuck you raw until I’m finished.”

Dorian wastes no time. He leans on one arm and takes his cock in his other hand. He grips himself hard, stripping his cock fast. Moans are tearing themselves from his throat with abandon, and the louder he is, the deeper Bull takes him. It doesn’t take long for the pressure to build in the pit of Dorian’s stomach, heat pooling at the base of his spine. He swipes his thumb against the slit of his dick and comes hard, stroking himself through it. Bull groans at the feeling of Dorian clenching around his cock and Dorian feels the sound reverberate in his bones. 

He’s sensitive now, and every thrust of Bull’s is almost too much, but Bull won’t stop. Dorian’s moans are higher now, and Bull keeps going, rhythm going staccato and Bull himself is close. Even though it’s agony, it’s a welcome one, and Dorian shoves his ass back just as Bull thrusts once more, emptying himself and filling Dorian up. Dorian’s eyes water as Bull clenches his fist in his hair.

He’s panting, sticky and satisfied, as Bull pulls out, and he winces a little. 

“Fuck me,” he says, exhausted, and Bull laughs.

“Thought I just did.”

“Bull, darling, does the word ‘rhetorical’ mean anything to you, or do you just pretend it doesn’t exist?”

“Shove off,” Bull responds, getting up and wiping himself off with his t-shirt. “I’m going to the gym.” With all his sheer bulk, people often get the wrong idea about Bull. Well, not entirely wrong. But Bull is also the most kind person Dorian knows (even if it comes out gruffly), and he reads people remarkably well. He’s not leaving because he wants to go to the gym (well, actually, he probably is on some level), he knows that Dorian needs privacy now, needs a different kind of comfort.

“Mhm,” Dorian murmurs, body aching but still tingling with the effects of the weed. He lies down on his back, not even bothering to tuck his now-flaccid cock back into his pants. He reaches for his phone, which is still on the couch, and flips through his contacts till he finds the one he wants.

He types out a quick text and puts his phone on the table, getting up and stripping off his clothes. He’s never been one for modesty, anyway. Bull slaps him off the ass on his way out, and Dorian’s cock responds with a feeble twitch. Not now, he tells it sternly, and goes to take a shower.

After he gets out he dresses for comfort in a loose white shirt, worn soft with overuse, and black sweats. When he goes out he dresses to be noticed, preferring flashy clothes that suggest his background of wealth. But when he’s in his own home, he likes the simplicity, just wanting to be warm and comfortable. He checks his phone, seeing a text that just reads, be right over, and he sets about cleaning up. 

He finishes just in time for the knock at the door, and opens it to see Cullen, cheeks red from the smarting wind outside, open smile on his face.

“Darling,” Dorian says, sweeping his hand in a showy gesture, because Cullen makes him nervous, and turns his predilection to the dramatics to an almost manic urge to be as over the top as possible, like he has to make Cullen notice him, no matter what.

Cullen, for his part, just takes it in stride, affectionately bumping Dorian’s shoulder as he walks by. Dorian is struck by a sudden chord of self-loathing but he tries to shake it off. His father has to stop getting in the way of his life. He left his home to make his own name for himself, so he wouldn’t have to hide who he was, so he wouldn’t go crazy with the secrecy and ritual and tradition. He won’t let his father change his opinion of himself. Dorian knows he’s a little shallow, sure, and he has faults like anyone else, but he is a good person. He deserves to be loved. He must keep telling himself that. The only problem is that he loves Cullen, and he knows Cullen will never love him back. So he fucks Bull and calls Cullen afterward, desperate to piece together some kind of twisted satisfaction.

“Hungry?” Dorian calls out, making his way to the kitchen already. “I’m ravenous.” He loads his voice with as much innuendo as possible partly because it makes Cullen blush, and partly because he simply cannot help himself. 

“I’ll eat anything,” Cullen replies and then Dorian hears a groan as Cullen has realized what he just said.

“Anything? Why, Cullen, I had no idea anything was on the menu, but I assure you I’ll do my best to satisfy.”

Dorian hears nothing in reply so he goes ahead and grabs a couple beers. He debates rummaging through the fridge for food but he’s not actually sure what he’s in the mood for so he gives up after very little effort. He makes his way to the living room and he suddenly notices he doesn’t have Cullen’s attention. That’s because right now, Cullen is reading the letter his father sent him and frowning, concern and pity marring his face. Pity is Dorian’s least favorite emotion, and he did not ask Cullen over to experience it. His jaw tightens and he almost calls Cullen out for snooping, but he doesn’t want to go through this right now. He wanted a distraction. He doesn’t want to drag his family into this. So instead he creeps back into the kitchen and opens the fridge door only to slam it closed loudly.

“Cullen,” he calls, wincing a little at how flamboyant he sounds, because that’s his coping mechanism isn’t it—to get people to stop seeing the hurt he blinds them with grandiose speech, drawing attention to the surface, away from where he nurses his wounds. “I haven’t the foggiest of what I could possibly feed you. What do you even eat, anyway? Wheatgrass?”

He hears Cullen chuckling, getting up and walking towards the kitchen.

“Dorian, you’ve seen me demolish an entire pizza. By myself. Sure, I can be a bit of a health nut sometimes, but let’s not turn me into a caricature.”

“Why not?” Dorian asks, nudging a beer over to Cullen while taking a swig of his. “A caricature is what I aspire to be, truly. I want to be so absurd that even I don’t know if I’m putting on an act anymore.”

“Tell me again why you’re studying history? Why you didn’t try your hand at theater?”

Dorian shakes his head, tutting. “Now why would I pretend to be anyone else when I can be me? It’s the role I was born to play, and it’s my greatest accomplishment.”

Cullen blushes, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. He rubs his hand over the back of his neck, which is Dorian’s favorite gesture of his. It’s self-conscious and far too precious for Dorian to resist. But it almost always comes when Cullen is about to embarrass himself, and Dorian thinks he knows exactly what Cullen is going to say.

“Don’t,” he says softly. 

Cullen at least has the tact to look guilty. “Dorian—“

“No, really Cullen.” Dorian says, and he drops the affectations in his speech, and he’s a little pleading, but mostly flat. “I don’t want to hear it. I’ve dealt with this for years and it hasn’t broken me. One little letter won’t be the proverbial straw on the camel’s back. For one, I’m much more attractive than a camel.”

Cullen indulges him with a smile, and doesn’t say anything more, so Dorian thinks he’s let it drop, but then Dorian is enveloped in a massive hug, and he stiffens for a moment. Cullen doesn’t let him go, though, just rests his chin on Dorian’s shoulder, nose brushing the shaved sides of his head. His arms are a solid, secure weight around Dorian, who doesn’t know how to respond. 

“I—“ He begins to say, but Cullen just tightens his grip.

“Shut up, Dorian,” Cullen says. “Just hug me back for a second.”

Dorian considers trying to wriggle out of Cullen’s grip, but he’s weak, and his arms come up hesitantly around Cullen’s waist, fingers digging in to the soft, worn fabric of Cullen’s shirt.

“You’re an oaf, you know that?” Dorian says, but his heart isn’t in it.

“And you’re a brat.” Cullen responds without missing a beat. He squeezes once more and lets go, much to Dorian’s relief. This had been a little too real for him. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

“Something sinful?” Dorian asks, waggling his eyebrows, eager to dispel the moment.

Cullen just snorts. “You’d probably call it a sin, but not for the reasons you’re thinking.”

Dorian hops up onto the counter to watch Cullen work. The man is all broad shoulders and surprising grace, comfortable with his faults in a way Dorian could never be. Cullen pulls out celery, which Dorian didn’t even know he had in the fridge, peanut butter, which puzzles him, and then he digs around in Dorian’s cupboards and finds raisins, which, what? Cullen carefully spreads peanut butter on each celery stalk and dots them with raisins, arranging it all on a plate which he then presents to Dorian.

“What the hell is that?” Dorian asks flatly, entirely skeptical. 

“Ants on a log,” Cullen answers, like that’s something that normal people eat. He takes one for himself and bites it, snapping off a piece of celery and crunching happily. It looks disgusting.

Dorian takes one hesitantly, looking at it this way and that. He squints at it, wondering how it can be improved upon. Then he delicately removes each raisin, dropping them on the plate, and puts the end of the celery stick in his mouth. Instead of following Cullen’s cue, however, he just licks all the peanut butter off in one long swipe of his tongue, smacking his lips. He then looks up at Cullen, who’s just staring at him.

“Yeah,” Dorian nods. “It’s alright.” He dips the celery back into the peanut butter and sucks it off again, making a show of it, but pretending like he doesn’t even notice what he’s doing. He’s rewarded with Cullen’s flustered cough and furious crunching. “Honestly I’m not sure why I’m not just using a spoon, though.” He adds thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s a better idea.” And he tosses the celery into the trash, grabbing a spoon, and essentially eating straight peanut butter. “Never let it be said that Cullen Rutherford can’t cook.”

The corner of Cullen’s mouth twitches and Dorian looks at him innocently, and that does it. Cullen roars with laughter, face flush and tears leaking out of his eyes. Dorian even laughs helplessly himself, feeling immediately at ease, all the earlier tension of the day drained out of him just because of Cullen’s presence. 

“You’re an idiot,” Cullen says fondly, after he catches his breath, and Dorian’s heart does a funny thing.

“Come on,” Dorian says, picking up the jar of peanut butter and cradling it to his chest like it’s something precious. “Watch me get high and we’ll watch nature documentaries.”

Cullen just follows, almost always willing to go along with what Dorian asks of him, and Dorian thinks, well, what if he asked him for a kiss? Would Cullen be so willing then? But Dorian doesn’t have good things in his life, never has, and he refuses to do anything that might make Cullen leave. He’s built a real home for himself here, a real family, and he’ll be damned if he lets anything get in the way of that, even if that thing is himself.

**Author's Note:**

> part of my grad school verse in which cullen is a math major, dorian is a history major, and iron bull is political science. come prompt me things or say hi at buckybaarnes.tumblr.com !


End file.
